I'll Follow You Into The Dark
by Detective In Training
Summary: John and Sherlock are tailing a suspect; however, while Sherlock is busy in his Mind Palace and demands no disturbance, John's mind is busy roaming around, until he comes to a sudden revelation.


John gazed around the restaurant, noting its busy hum of voices and how they'd mute to a dull background noise whenever he looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed utterly impervious to his surroundings, focused instead on stabbing his salmon with his usual ferocity when it came to food, and stared avidly through the window to catch a glimpse of the suspect.

'Oww!' suddenly John uttered, as Sherlock's foot collided sharply with his shin under the table, and made him wince in pain. 'Now, what did you do _that_ for?' rubbing the throbbing spot he inquired grumpily.

'You're not paying attention, John.' Sherlock complained peevishly. 'We're here to try solve a case, not stare moonstruck at happy couples eating their dinner. If I'd known you'd behave like this, I'd have left you at home.'

Exasperated and irritated with Sherlock, John withdrew in a dignified huff and sullenly jabbed at his plate, his previously voracious appetite gone completely.

An hour passed, and their food had been long since cleared away; the restaurant emptying steadily, but Sherlock kept ordering one coffee after another, ceaselessly and intensely gazing at the sidewalk outside the restaurant.

John wished he could pull off Sherlock's 'Bored' and pout as successfully as its original author, and observe the effect on him, however, he was pretty sure Sherlock would simply tell him to lend a hand with some inexplicable case running through his mind, or more probably, to just stay quiet and let him think. So instead, John took to secretly studying Sherlock's face in the dim and flickering candlelight of the restaurant.

The light played tricks with Sherlock's large eyes, fringed with their thick dark eyelashes. They looked like dark pools of liquid, as opalescent as a cat's when it's on the prowl, he noted. The warm, yellow glow caressed his razor sharp cheekbones, making the curve of his jaw seem cavernous, carving its way down to a full, sumptuous mouth and those luscious lips. The curls tumbled loosely across his forehead; one glossy lock kept falling in Sherlock's eyes, and was being tucked back behind his ear; and if John paid enough attention, he could actually smell Sherlock's shampoo, reveling in its musky freshness.

Straining to see this wondrous, silent creature from the corner of his eye while pretending to be looking through the window, was giving John a thunderous headache - or possibly that was from the double helping of fudge cake he'd treated himself with, to pass away the time. Yes, that was definitely more likely.

'Incredible…' John thought to himself. 'I could be here, in this very spot, with a gorgeous, exciting woman, chatting and laughing with her, yet not feel a fraction as alive and excited as I am when I am sitting opposite a deadly silent and motionless Sherlock.' There was this… animal magnetism that drew him to this dangerous , brilliant man who could be as moody as a temperamental five year old, yet as wise as one who's lived an eternity.

'John – please stop staring at me. It's unnerving. I know you're trying to use my deduction technique on me, but your mind absolutely cannot grasp its complexity.' Oh… and he was also entirely oblivious to anything which had remotely human emotions. However, John was startled enough that Sherlock _had_ actually noticed him staring, so instead he turned away to look around the restaurant once more.

Suddenly his eyes chanced upon an old couple sitting at their table, as silent as he and Sherlock, only they were not on the outlook for assassins, he figured. The light haloed the white hair of the lady and bounced off the wedding band on the finger of the husband, as they both sat placid and content. After a while, the husband calmly placed his hand to cover his wife's tiny, wrinkled hand, and then resumed his quiet stance.

'Goodness,' muttered John, feeling a twinge of something odd in his chest.

'Is something wrong? The meal disagreed with you, maybe?' Sherlock inquired, shaken out of his contemplation, faint worry lines etching their way into his porcelain skin.

'No, no, nothing… well, maybe… yes,' John finally conceded, fed up of being forced to remain quiet. 'You see the old couple a few tables to our right?'

'Yes, I do. Married about forty years, two cats, one daughter; husband's a lawyer-she used to work for him. And they both retired together seven years ago. Rather well off, I'd say…' Sherlock rattled off at top speed.

'Unbelievable… But I mean – do you _really_ see them? As persons?'

'Well, they clearly _are_ persons! What's so special about them? John, I'm losing my patience.'

'Do you see how silent they are? How calm? Some years ago, I used to look at old couples and feel sorry for them – and worried for myself; afraid even. I was terrorised of becoming like that, Sherlock. Of having to grow old with somebody and running out of things to say, at a point, and end up just awkwardly sitting, facing each other, staring – in silence. It would be awful, tense and incredibly uncomfortable.

'But I guess it's not. I mean – look at them. A lifetime of growing old together, knowing the person inside out, living with them and loving them. That does not make anything awkward. Running out of things to say – it leaves place for love; leaves a pleasant silence and togetherness. So what, if you're silent as long as you're with the person you love!' Realizing he'd said too much, John clamped his lips together and hoped Sherlock wouldn't have realized the implication.

This time, however, Sherlock seemed transfixed by John's words, his eyes blinking slowly – wide and staring, like a deer's struck in the headlights of a car. Shaking his head, he snapped out of the trance and tried to speak, his lips moving soundlessly and ineffectually. 'We… we are good at silence, John, aren't we? It's not… it's not awkward, yes?'

John blinked – the diffuse candle glow may have been lying because he sensed rather than saw the faint blush that crept on Sherlock's cheeks. And then he blinked again in surprise as Sherlock placed his large hand on top of John's, lightly – as though afraid of scaring him, and whispered, 'We'd be good together when old. I think I can see us.'

With that he leapt up, and in one smooth movement, threw money down on the table while grabbing his coat and scarf, and swept out of the restaurant already running after the suspect, halfway down the road.

John stayed glued in his seat, completely struck dumb. 'So can I,' he whispered to himself before jumping up and dashing out to follow Sherlock into the night.


End file.
